


Fragility

by karavan (orphan_account)



Series: feels like we're dying [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Attempted Sexual Assault, Closure, Codependency, Complicated Relationships, Drug Use, Foster Care, M/M, Minor Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Reflection, Underage Drinking, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:01:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26039890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/karavan
Summary: Can someone who says he loves you want to hurt you at the same time?After finally getting what he thought he wanted from Bro, Dave is left at a crossroads: Return to the chaos of his previous life with Bro, or take a chance at normalcy with the people who choose to love him.Follow-up to 'feels like we're dying'.
Relationships: Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider & Dave Strider
Series: feels like we're dying [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1890199
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I re-read a few of my old works and found myself wanting some closure on this one. It's also a welcome change of pace to write about a Bro who's slightly less hostile and more open to being affectionate with Dave!
> 
> Posting as a separate story for those who care and aren't interested in what happened after chapter 5. 
> 
> Karkat was not originally anywhere near this but he pops up in a later scene where Dave really needs him so here he is.

It's almost a month before you see your brother again. 

You spend most of that time building it up in your mind, thinking about what you'll say to him if you ever grow the balls, but all your plans scatter like dust in the wind when you do a double-take over at the parking lot opposite the skatepark one Friday afternoon and the plates on his red F-250 jump straight out at you. 

At first you think it's gotta be some kind of coincidence — wrong place, wrong time; he's probably only here copping — but when he gets out the cab, leans up against the truck with his hands stuffed in his pockets, you know he's waiting for you. 

You make your excuses to your friends — only one of 'em seems to even hear you — and flip your deck up, casually slinging it under one arm as you sidle over to him. You take your sweet time about it, kicking up at the rocks and sticks underfoot, because Bro is completely _fucked_ if he thinks you're going to take a running leap into his arms after what he did.

Once he's stood in front of you, the two of you looking each other in the eyes, all that resentment that's been building up in you for almost a month retreats like a spooked animal. It's replaced by a familar tension and sense of indecision: Should you say something first, or should he? Why is he even here if not to finally chew you out for ignoring him for so long?

He takes a step away from the truck, either coming in to hold you or grab at you, and it causes such an exaggerated flinching reaction that your first instinct is to glance around in the hopes no one saw you pussy out because _what the fuck, Dave_? Your stomach clenches when you spot Karkat over by the ramp, staring in your direction. He's got a hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun and you grit your teeth because of course it's him. Apart from Bro he's the only person you know in possession of that irritating habit of noticing absolutely everything _all the time._

You make a mental note to give him some shit later for being too all up in your business.

You're grateful when Bro doesn't make a thing about the flinching, just chooses to let it slide. When he nods at the truck, says, "You wanna get in? I got the A/C runnin'," you shrug but climb up into the passenger seat.

It's way too quiet once you're alone, the sounds of traffic and skateboards clacking against cement drowned out by the buffer of the closed door. You balance your deck between your knees and lean forward to fiddle with your brother's stereo, switching it straight over to Christian radio just to be a dick. A woman's thin warbling about Jesus Christ, our lord and savior, fills the cab and you're surprised when Bro doesn't respond to your goading. He lets this one slide too so you figure you must still have some serious Guilt Coin in the bank with him if he's going to let you be disrespectful like this without setting you straight.

It's a little unsettling, if you're honest, when he's this passive with you. You wish he'd just pick the kind of dude he's going to be then just _be_ that all the time so you're never caught off guard. 

After a few minutes it becomes clear he's waiting for you to give him some kind of opening. You don't want to, no matter how uncomfortable it's making things, so you sit there and mess around with the protein shaker in the cup tray. Absentmindedly, you twist the lid off it — it's half full and fucking _rancid_ by now — and Bro growls, "Jesus fuck, Dave, put the lid back on."

It's kind of funny; enough to break the ice. You laugh and say, "You know, you should clean this shit up, dude. Smells like Seth Rogen's jockstrap in here."

He scratches at his stubble, says, "Yeah," and rests his arm along the back of your seat. You don't flinch away this time and things are almost comfortable enough for you to forget why you haven't been talking to him in the first place. 

Almost. 

"Where you been all month?" It's said casually enough, although you can sense the underlying disapproval in your brother's tone. There's no way he hasn't taken this long sabbatical from each other real personal like. There's no way he's not pissed about it and just playing nice long enough for you to let him slip under your guard again. 

You can't make it that easy. 

You scratch at your elbow and say, "Has it been that long? Iunno, guess I just got busy."

With a soft snort, Bro answers, "What, fuckin' around the mall with your buddies? Yeah, I see y'all outta school."

You twist around in your seat. "What, you're spyin' on me now? And since when do you give a damn if I'm in school or not, man?"

It takes him a while to answer. When he does, he's staring straight ahead, jaw set. "'Cause before, 'least you was with me. Now you just out here runnin' wild, huh?" His gaze appears fixed on your small group of friends, laughing and shoving each other by the stairs, and you're practised enough at reading his face to interpret the distaste, which only angers you further because fuck him. 

"Whatever," you mumble, folding your arms and turning your face, "I'm just sayin', applications for father of the decade closed, like, three years ago. If you wanna go all concerned daddy on me now it's kinda late for that."

Bro pretends not to hear you. It gets to him when you talk like this, shove it in his face that he was a shithouse dad to you, but you've got a flow going now and can't seem to stop.

"Anyway," you continue, "you weren't exactly blowing my phone up, right?"

He'd called a handful of times and you'd ignored him. He didn't leave voicemails. There were no texts asking you what's up; if you were ever going to come 'round again. The closest you'd got to an apology was him denying he was ever going to beat your ass while clinging to you on the couch, petting you like you were some baby bird he'd broken under his hands.

Whenever you get too close to brushing up against the rest of that memory you back off fast because it's like ramming a hot poker through your chest. 

"I called you."

"Mm, like two whole times."

Bro smacks his hand down on the dash, causing you to jump, and when you look at him again he's seething. A muscle twitches in his jaw and he's gripping at the leg of his jeans so hard the veins on the back of his hand pop out. It's a timely reminder you're pushing him too far — that he won't sit back and listen to your whining forever — and if you know what's good for you, you'll shut up and listen. 

"Didn't realize it was some kinda test." If it was he fucking failed it. 

You press your lips together to keep from saying anything.

"So what you want from me, kid? You want me to beg ya to see me?"

You snort a laugh at the absurdity of the idea, while enjoying it at the same time: Bro actually contrite for a change, on his knees begging _you_ for your forgiveness.

"You wanna see me?" you say softly instead. "Or did you come here for something else?"

You should have just asked him that at the beginning: _What do you want? Why are you here?_ Bro never had trouble going a long ass time without seeing you before, so long as it was on his terms. He can't have tracked you down like this just to lay eyes on you. If that was all he'd wanted he could have done it without ever alerting you at all. 

You watch his face, trying to read all the things he won't say. He's full of tension, you can see it in the set of his shoulders, though that could just be that you're pissing him off. 

"We gotta talk." He meets your eyes and there's a swooping sensation in your gut now — genuine trepidation — because Bro never wants to just talk. 

"Okay," you say slowly, "so let's talk. What's up, man?"

He shakes his head and turns the volume down on the radio. "Can't be now. I gotta head in a minute; I'm workin' downtown tonight."

You narrow your eyes at him. "Okay."

"So come by the apartment Monday. I'll be there."

"Dave." Bro saying your name alerts you to the fact you've spaced out on him. He places a heavy hand on your shoulder, gives you a gentle shake, and prods, " _Dave_. Monday."

You nod and clear your throat. "Yeah. Fine, whatever, I'll be there."

You lift your deck up and hug it to your chest. You linger for a little while longer, because it's not like you haven't missed him so much it shreds you up inside. The little kid in you wants to fall against him, ask him to take you with him wherever he's going, but you see that for the trap it is.

You've made it this far on your own. You've proved to him you don't need him to live; that you'll walk away if he hurts you. You're showing him you can be all the things he taught you to be: tough; resilient; a _man_.

He brings his hand up to your head, gently fucks with your hair. You shy away from his touch even though it's kind of nice when he still treats you like a kid. 

The engine starts as soon as you push open the passenger side door. You slam it closed right as he's saying, "and get'cher ass back home, boy," and keep your back to him as he drives away. 

You stand there for a while, your face raised to the sun as you let the warm afternoon rays soak into your skin. When you've had enough time to decompress, you're no longer in the mood for any of this and just want to be at home, alone with your thoughts. 

You start making your way towards the direction of the bus-stop when someone shouts, "Dave!" from behind you.

You whip around to see Karkat running to catch up with you. When he finally does, it takes him what feels like forever to catch his breath. He hunches over, palms braced against his knees, and gasps for breath, all pink-cheeked and sweaty hair. 

"Yo, you need to work on your cardio, dude," you remark, giving him an unimpressed once-over. He's small and skinny like you but at least you're fit, with good genes. Too many years fucking around with your brother — either grappling with him or running away — have gifted you with a passing appreciation for physical fitness. At least maintaining enough of it to run fast if you have to. 

When Karkat does manage to speak, it's a choked-out, "Fuck you."

You raise an eyebrow. This sour little shit seriously ran all this way just to tell you that?

"Okay. Later." You spin to leave again and he growls, "Wait."

You wait for him to elaborate because why the hell not. It's a welcome distraction from thinking too hard on Bro and what it is he wants to talk to you about. You know it's guaranteed serious if he's bothered enough to pencil in a date with you. The what-ifs will weigh heavily on you all weekend. 

"Who was that?" Karkat jerks his head in the direction of the parking lot. His hands are on hips now and he's grimacing, though the wheezing has slowed down some. 

You're instantly on the defensive. "What's it to you?"

He shrugs. "Didn't realize you were into older guys, that's all. Kinda weird. _You're_ weird." He weakly waves his finger at you.

You let that sit for a few moments, so that when you finally _do_ tell him he feels as stupid as he sounds. 

"That was my brother."

Karkat's expression changes and his face flushes a deeper shade of pink. "I knew that. I was just— Whatever. I knew that."

"Uh-huh. Look man, I gotta head. I'll see you 'round."

You flip your deck down on the footpath and kick off from the ground. Behind you, you could swear you hear Karkat kicking something and hissing, "Shit. Fucking stupid. _Shit_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is rough but it's midnight and I'm tired and over it so will post as I won't get another chance over the next few days.
> 
> Self-indulgent feelings fest coming up!

You blow off your Monday afternoon classes to meet with Bro at the apartment. It takes you over an hour just to bus it into the city, and by the time you're hauling ass up that familar staircase you're already exhausted. 

You sweep your trepidation to one side as you knock on the door, wait for him to answer it. There's no point worrying about something that hasn't even happened yet.

When he finally gets to the door, he looks like you just woke him up. He stares at you for a while, blinking slowly, until you're forced to say, "Yo. _You_ asked me to come here, remember? Did you seriously fuckin' forget? Shit, man."

You're about to spit the dummy and just bail — why _why_ does he always have to make you feel so fucking stupid for caring too much; for hanging on his every word — when he leans out the door and growls, "Keep it the fuck down, Dave. I thought you'd be comin' later, that's all."

"It's noon, bro."

He frowns at you. You think his displeasure with your yelling has less to do with the nosy neighbours who're a little too trigger happy when it comes to Bro and calling the cops and more to do with him being sensitive to loud noises right now. The weekend must have been a rager. 

You fold your arms and look at the ground, unable to wipe the dirty look off your face just yet. Unable to believe him that he didn't forget about you.

"Whatever. Are you gonna let me in or not?"

He stretches; cracks his neck. "Just...hang here for two minutes, alright?" His voice is grumbly; deeper than usual. "We're goin' out." He doesn't say where.

The door closes then, right in your face, and you try not to feel some type of way about the fact he just denied you entry to your own apartment, however subtly. That shit hurts, but you figure he's got his reasons. Something — or someone, you think with a pang — he doesn't want you to see. You won't sulk about it, or let him know it bothers you. 

Fifteen minutes later you're in his truck, pulling into the parking lot of some dingy strip mall. It takes a couple minutes for you to recognize where you are and when you do your heart gives a little leap of excitement. He hasn't taken you for ice cream out here since you were eleven, and he was having one of his softer moods.

The realization that whatever he has to tell you must be real bad if he's willing to soften the blow like this puts a slight damper on your excitement. Still, you follow him inside the store like you're starving and, when he doesn't offer any restrictions on what you can order, you take it as the green light to go crazy and get whatever the fuck you want.

After a ten minute wait you're sitting outside on the plastic chairs balancing a big paper cup of ice cream, chocolate syrup, pineapple, caramel, whipped cream and cherries on your lap. When the nice lady had passed it over the counter to you Bro had looked at it with revulsion — he would never indulge like this, even on a carb day, out of sheer principle alone — but you don't care about any of that as you shovel spoonful after spoonful in your mouth like it's going out of style. 

It's been years and you still eat like you're not sure you'll be doing it again the next day. It bothers Big Dave and Kathy, who always tell you to slow down or else you'll get a stomachache, but they don't get it. There's a lot they don't get about you, like they're missing half a puzzle's worth of pieces but still want to think they know you enough to love you. You can't place any kind of value on those words when they don't know — were never there for — your worst moments. Whenever they say they love you, you wish they'd take it someplace else. You don't want it.

Shit's different with Bro. He knows every ugly thing about you. He was there for all your worst moments. When he says it, he says it actually knowing you and that's what makes it different. 

Your brother just chills beside you for a while as you eat, arm slung over the back of your chair, forearm raised to shield his eyes from the sun. He doesn't wear those dumb shades anymore. There's a lot about him that's different now. He'd dropped his commitment to irony right around the same time they took you away from him. Now when people stop to look at him, or swing around for a double take, it's not because he looks major whacko. 

When he shoves the sleeves of his hoodie up over his forearms, it's habit for you to attempt a good look at the insides of his elbows, even if you can't see much with the fabric all scrinched up. You're not sure if he's still using like that but you try not to worry about it too much these days; he knows what he's doing. Some kids, you'd guess, would worry about that shit endlessly — their dad turning up slumped in some back alley somewhere 'cause he's a dumbass — but not you. Not Bro. He always seems to know how much is too much and you trust he'll always be alright.

When you're down to your last two or three heaping spoonfuls, Bro says, "You throw up in my truck I'mma toss you right out, kid, even if we movin'."

You shake your head and, with your mouth still full, tell him, "I won't."

"Gotta get ya off all this shit, little man. Get you makin' the right gains again," he says in a quiet voice, pinching then poking you in your side. There's no fat there but you get what he's saying. You're lazy, and you don't take care of yourself the way he does. You'll never be like him if you don't start putting the effort in. 

And part of you does really want to. You have to admit, it'd be dope to look just like Bro one day. You're aware it'd require a shit ton of discipline and commitment from you. But even if you were drowning in that shit, which you're most definitely not, puberty doesn't seem to want to cooperate with your aspirations lately. You're still smaller than most kids in your grade and you can't imagine a universe in which you'll ever hit 6'4". 

When you're done you place the empty cup down by your feet and wipe your mouth. "You wanna train with me again?"

"Hell yeah."

You shrug. "Okay." You say it like you don't really care when honestly, the thought puts knots in all your insides. The word 'training', to you, is synonomous with 'strife', also known as 'let Bro whup your ass six ways to Sunday until you're a groaning, bleeding puddle of flesh on the concrete'. You desperately want time alone with him but even you're not sure about opening that can of worms. Can you trust him to have learned some restraint?

He hasn't _really_ hurt you; not for a while. Maybe that means you can. 

You sit back in your chair, lacing your fingers over your bloated stomach. "We didn't come here to talk about training."

"Nope."

"You gonna tell me what's on your mind then?"

"I gotta get outta here, Dave. I'm leavin' town."

You whip your head around to look at him, so fast your neck creaks in protest. "What? Like _leaving_ leaving? For real?" Even as you say those words out loud, blood rushes in your ears and it doesn't seem real to you.

When you'd first been separated, you'd have dreams like this all the time. He'd leave you, only most of the time he'd never bother to tell you he was going first. You'd turn up at the apartment and it'd be empty, stripped bare of any evidence of your lives together. You'd run through the apartment in the dark, throwing open doors, calling out for him only to have your own voice to echo in your ears. In others, he _would_ tell you he was leaving, tell you right to your face that it was because of you. You'd cling onto his arms and legs while he pulled away, ripped you off of him like you were something dirty and leave you screaming after him, begging him to come back. 

You'd wake up yelling, in cold sweats, and Big Dave would have to calm you down. 

This isn't a dream. 

"Why?" Already your voice is shaking. 

He's hunched over now, forearms on his thighs. He scrubs his hands over his face. "I ain't gonna bring you into all that shit right now. Can't."

"Fine." You dig your fingernails into your palms. "Where?"

"Kansas. I got a place lined up in Kansas."

"Kansas," you repeat slowly. "Kansas, like ten-hours-away-if-you-speed Kansas? What the fuck, Bro?"

If you were looking at a map it doesn't even seem that far. But ten hours away is as good as halfway across the world when it comes to you and Bro. You'll never get away to see him and he must know that. He _must_. 

You sit there and try to absorb this shit, think of something worthwhile to say. You can't beg him to stay. Begging never got you anywhere with him. 

"Is this why you didn't want me in the apartment today?" you ask without looking at him. "All packed up already, huh? You sell all our shit too? Lemme guess, you're bailin' tonight and this is the last hurrah, the grand finale, the 'let me take you someplace special just so I can fuck with your feeings again'."

"You need to calm your shit," he says in a low, warning tone. "It ain't like that, Dave."

"Really?" You spit it so loud a couple on their way into the ice cream shop turn to look at you, then at each other. You don't really give a fuck what they think. "What's it like, then? You bring me out here all nice, act like you give a shit about me just to what, tell me you're leaving me again? Fuck you, man." You push up out the seat and he grabs at your wrist, forces you back down. 

You give him what you hope is a challenging look. "You really want me to start screaming? Actin' like you're kidnapping me? Let go of me, dude."

"No. Sit down. Hear me out."

You stare at him until the fight leaves you.

"I'm not leavin' you."

You snort a laugh. "Don't tell me you'll come back and see me 'cause we both know that's some bullshit."

"I'm not comin' back. I'm tellin' you 'cause I want you to come with me."

It's the answer you least expected. Not once did it occur to you he might want that. He'd even told you that once — that he wanted to get out of Texas with you once you were old enough — but it's not until now you realize you never truly believed him.

"Seriously? I mean, I can't just— When?" Your mind races, turning over endless scenarios and possibilities so fast your head spins.

"Week from now. I've got some shit I need'a sort out first."

* * *

Getting back in the truck, the ride back out to the suburbs, passes in a quiet blur. 

You think so hard your head hurts, bite a few of your fingernails down to the quick. When Bro rolls to a stop about four blocks from your house and cuts the engine, your ears ring in the silence. 

You break it with: "Are you for real with all this? You're not messin' with me, you swear it?" He gives you a look that tells you he thinks you're stupid for even asking that. 

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you want me to come with you?"

When he answers, his voice is such a quiet murmur you have to strain your ears to hear him, then second-guess it's what he really said. 

"I love you, Dave."

You hold those words close to your chest, cradle them like they're something fitful and precious, on your walk back home.

* * *

Later that night you suspect Big Dave knows something's up when he gently knocks on your door, asks if you want to come out and help him with dinner. 

You get up off your ass pretty much immediately even though you really don't want to, because sulking in your room tends to draw more attention to you, not less.

Your suspicions are confirmed when Big Dave keeps taking surreptitious glances at you, like he's trying to read your mind, while you're cutting up a pile of onions and peppers.

You're relieved when he stops dicing chicken and comes out with, "You know, funny thing today." Usually you'd make fun of him for the way he says 'thing' like 'thang' but the moment isn't right. 

"Oh yeah?"

"On my way home this afternoon I saw your brother's truck parked a few blocks away. He still drive that red F-250?"

Without skipping a beat, you shrug and answer, "I dunno. Been a long time since I saw the guy. Might'a been someone else."

"I don't think so."

"Hm. Okay." You finish chopping up the veggies and scoop them into a large plastic bowl, place it on the counter, then head over to the sink to wash your heads. A prickling sensation at the back of your neck tells you Big Dave is still looking at you, trying to read deceit into your every word and action, but you won't give anything up.

The guy is a retired cop. You know he can spot a liar a mile away, and his bullshit detectors must be firing off like crazy whenever you're around, but you won't give up shit when it comes to Bro.

Big Dave gives up on questioning you and you take a seat at the kitchen table, just so it doesn't look like you're guiltily slinking off. 

Your phone pings and your heart gives an involuntary leap of excitement when you see who it is.

TT: Hey. Can you make some shit up, get away for the night on Friday?

TG: dunno  
TG: maybe  
TG: why

TT: There's a thing. 

TG: a thing  
TG: heh  
TG: what kinda thing

TT: A 'we're gettin outta this dump' kinda thing.   
TT: Should go out with a bang. Cuz FUCK this place.

TG: are you inviting me to a party bro   
TG: cuz if you are im so in  
TG: im game like atari   
TG: im with the old school like safari 

TT: Quoting Rick Ross gets you uninvited, little dude.

TG: what  
TG: hey  
TG: wait...seriously?

TT: I'll see you Friday. 

When you look up, the grin dies on your face when you see Big Dave staring down at you. 

"We love you, Dave," he tells you, out of nowhere. "You know that, don't you?"

You clear your throat and shift in your seat, instantly uncomfortable. "Yeah. Yeah, I know that."

"You can talk to us — talk to me — about anything that's worrying you."

"I'm not worried. I mean, there's nothing. I'm all good. Promise."

Big Dave claps a hand on your shoulder, gives you a smile that looks a little sad, then lets you alone. 

You wish you didn't have to lie to him. You wish you didn't have to know it'll break his heart when he finds out you're gone for good. 


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Friday morning rolls around, you still don't have a solid plan in place for the evening. You've considered the idea of just disappearing for the night, letting them call in a missing person's report on your ass, but you're still underage and Big Dave's ex-law enforcement. He'll have an Amber Alert out on you before the sun sets and anyway, that idea is dumb as hell. None of that would even be necessary in the first place. 

They know Bro. They'll know exactly where to find you. 

You're considering just texting Bro and telling him you can't come.

He'll probably be disappointed about it. He went out of his way to ask, which means he actually wants you around this time, but you can't see a way out of this that doesn't end with you putting yourself, and Bro, in a whole pile of shit. 

It's your fault. Your fault you never made the kind of friends who'd freely help you out in a bind like this. You have friends — or people you hang out with, whose knowledge of you basically ends with your first name — and yet no one who'd stick their neck out for you. Nobody likes you that much, except maybe John and he's half a world away. 

Maybe you're looking in the wrong place. You might not have any friends but there's one person you suspect might like you more than he lets on if the metaphorical equivalant of pulling your pigtails is telling you you're an asshole every time he sees you. It's a dick move but if there's any chance you can use that to your advantage, you'll be in the clear.

You shoot your shot during lunch. You have no idea where this guy goes to school — if he's even in school — but he sees your message pretty much straight away. You watch the typing indicator for what feels like a full fifteen minutes, which you reason means he's typing, then deleting; struggling to come up with a response he's happy with. 

If he's that nervous and indecisive, you figure it's a good sign. 

TG: hey karkat

CG: WHAT DO YOU WANT? YOU NEVER TEXT ME FIRST. 

TG: chill  
TG: just wanted to see what youre up to 

CG: WHY? DID YOU WANT TO DO SOMETHING?

TG: slow down  
TG: i mean yeah  
TG: maybe but like  
TG: not right now  
TG: im in school dude

CG: GOOD. I DIDN'T WANT TO DO ANYTHING WITH YOU ANYWAY.

TG: dope  
TG: anyway  
TG: whats your favorite animal  
TG: im feelin the capybara right now  
TG: its basically like a giant swimming hamster that weighs 1000 pounds  
TG: sounds fake but its real  
TG: on god  
TG: google it

CG: DAVE WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?

TG: fine  
TG: i need a favor ok

CG: WHY THE HELL WOULD I DO ANYTHING FOR YOU?

TG: i dunno  
TG: cuz then ill owe you a fat one  
TG: and you know im good for it

CG: I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT FAT ONES OR WHATEVER THE FUCK THAT MEANS. WHAT DO YOU WANT?

TG: could you cover for me tonight?  
TG: say im staying with u

CG: WHY DO YOU NEED SOMEONE TO COVER FOR YOU? WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING?

TG: nothing its just  
TG: my foster dads kind of a hardass  
TG: he doesnt like me going out   
TG: ...please?

CG: FINE. ONLY BECAUSE YOU'LL OWE ME AND TRUST ME, I WON'T FUCKING FORGET IT. 

TG: i believe u  
TG: thanks man  
TG: youre a bro

CG: WE'RE NOT BROS DAVE. I DON'T EVEN LIKE YOU. 

TG: k  
TG: still  
TG: thanks

You don't hear from Karkat again until that afternoon, when you're on the bus home from school. 

CG: HEY DAVE

TG: yo

CG: WHATEVER YOU'RE DOING TONIGHT... IS IT BAD?

TG: bad?

CG: YEAH, LIKE... DANGEROUS OR SOMETHING. 

TG: lol no  
TG: its all good  
TG: ill be with family so its like  
TG: guaranteed safe u feel me  
TG: dont trip

If there's one thing you can count on, it's Bro not letting you get into too much trouble. He's harder on you than he is on himself. He'll make sure you stay straight if he's the one watching you. 

CG: I NEVER SAID I WAS TRIPPING. JUST DON'T BE A DUMBASS. 

TG: u got it 

* * *

Getting out of the house is easier than expected. Lying with a straight face is second-nature at this point, and you and Karkat spent twenty minutes getting your story straight after school. Unless Big Dave or Kathy physically make the drive over to Karkat's place in Greenspoint — and honestly, you wouldn't put it past Dave if he gets particularly suspicious but you've had a good week on purpose, given him no reason to doubt you — you'll probably be fine. 

You leave the house with a breezy goodbye, not lingering long enough to fuck up, look sketchy or arouse suspicion. You text your brother to let him know you're on your way then head north on Venice St to wait for the bus.

* * *

You hear the apartment before you see it; loud, rolling, thumping bass that'll most likely have your neighbours calling the cops the second it hits 11pm. You bang your fist against the door, hard as you can, then hang back a little. 

When the door swings open you second-guess yoruself for a minute, worried you've got the wrong apartment. The slight, dark-haired young man who answers the door, drink in hand, is definitely not your brother. It's not until you actually check the numbers on the neighbouring doors that you blurt out, "Who are you?"

Instead of an answer, the kid gives you a sweeping up-down look. Not like he's checking you out or anything but like he's sizing you up. You don't like that. 

"Where's Dirk?"

He blinks at you, and you figure he's probably on something to be acting so fucking dopey. 

You kick at the bottom of the door, elbowing past him in a way that's probably uncalled for, and mutter, "Dude, get the fuck outta my way. Dumbass."

Handful of your brother's acquaintances and light smatter of junk aside, the apartment is empty. Like, really empty. Emptier than you've ever seen it. You set your backpack down by the door and take a good look around. 

Apart from the futon, sound-system, and the TV propped up on a cinderblock, there's nothing left. All of Bro's shit is gone. Not just boxed-up, like it's waiting to be thrown on the back of the moving truck, but _gone_ gone.

An unexpected pang of anxiety flares in your chest at the realization he wasn't talking shit about leaving. He meant every word he said. He's doing it, and he wants you to leave with him, and this isn't just some abstract desire you've been hoping on since you were thirteen years old. It's reality, and what does it even mean that part of you wishes he never told you, or that he'd at least waited, because you need more time to think everything through.

You don't have a choice. You have to go. Just the thought of the apartment sitting empty, of him not being here, where you can still get to him when you need him, makes you feel not-right inside. 

You find Bro out in the kitchen talking to some dude in hospital scrubs. The boy who'd answered the door is there too, chatting to a tattooed girl with purple hair and so many piercings you wonder how she feels about magnets. 

A glinting set of scales on the bench catches your eye but you pretend you don't see it. Just thinking about what Big Dave would say — " _He's no good for you. The choices he makes — the things he involves himself in; the people he surrounds himself with — are no good. They'll never be any good. People like your brother, Dave, they don't change for anybody. They'll always choose to circle the drain and they'll make damn sure they drag you down with them_ " — makes you wish you never listened to anything he said. Let him get inside your head, to the point you can hear him when he's not there. Because even if it sounds like he's right, he's wrong about Bro. He'll never see the whole picture when he's not even in it. 

You interrupt his conversation with, "Hey." Cool, like you're not even bothered that he couldn't answer the door by himself. You get a brief glance and nod in response before he returns to his conversation but you brush it off. He'll have time for you later, when he's done with whatever _this_ is. 

Bro doesn't do friends either. Most of these people must be here wrapping up some kind of business-related thing with him. There's money exchanging hands if those scales are anything to go by and you know better than to get involved in all that. For the moment you're good to just hang back and chill for a while.

You slip around Bro to reach the overhead cabinets, searching for a glass. You're not shocked when a bucketload of shuriken doesn't instantly rain down over you, but the cabinets are empty, all of them. 

"Here." You turn around, and it's the same guy from the door, proferring a red plastic cup. Up close, his eyes are kind of trippy; a goldy shade of green. 

You offer a dull, "Thanks," in return but don't linger for conversation before you set to work on making yourself a drink.

Liquor bottles are lined up along the counter; a choice between Tito's, Captain Morgan, and Jack Daniel's. You go for the Tito's and pour a rather heavy-handed shot into your tumblr. You glance behind you, just to check Bro's not watching, before you pour in a bit more for good measure. You top it up with orange soda from the overloaded cooler and take a moderate sip. 

It's a good thing Bro's not watching because you make a scrunched-up face the second the alcohol passes your lips. It's got bite — burning your tongue, your lips, the roof of your mouth, numbing it all out — and you know it'll take at least 'til the end of the cup before you're used to it enough not to cringe.

You turn around and lean up against the bench, one hand tucked beneath your armpit, the other cradling the cup close to your chest. You cast a quick glance at Bro, half-wondering if he'll up and snatch the drink away from you, pour it down the sink even though he let you make it. Sometimes he gives you beer, but he's never been so cool about you getting into his hard liquor. 

He doesn't even bat an eyelid at you, so you figure he's turning over a new leaf, committed to treating you like more of an adult. Which you practically are. Your sixteenth is coming up fast and after that it's all just technicalities.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. You fish it out and snort a laugh when you see who it is. 

CG: SO WHAT ARE YOU REALLY UP TO TONIGHT DAVE?

TG: seriously dude?  
TG: chill  
TG: its 8pm and youre already up my asshole 

CG: I'M NOT UP YOUR ANYTHING. I DON'T EVEN CARE, I JUST DON'T WANT TO BE ASSOCIATED WITH YOUR CRIMINAL ACTIVITY.

TG: lol sure 

You're halfway through your drink, already feeling kind of warm and floaty, when the sound of your brother's name cuts across the loud music, pulling your attention back from your thoughts. 

It's the guy from the door again. He's up close to him now, talking animatedly, and you're watching his mouth move but you can't make out what he's saying. What jumps out at you is the overly-familar way he's standing right in your brother's personal space; intimate, like he's been given prior permission. He's touching him, too — first his shoulder, then sliding a palm all the way down his forearm. 

Bro has never been physically close with anyone apart from you. He doesn't allow people to touch him like that; you've never even seen him kiss anybody. Which means this kid's either about to get his ass kicked, or you're witnessing something very new.

It's enough to make you leave the kitchen. 

You take your drink with you and cut across the living room, straight to your old bedroom. At least no one's allowed in here. Maybe you can even wait the night out until everyone's gone, though that'll probably only piss Bro off, make him think you're sulking or attention-seeking when really, you just want him all to yourself.

Like it used to be. Before he put his hands on you again and everything got all weird and fucked up. 

It's a relief when you close the door and the noise is briefly muted. Until you flick on the light and find that this room, too, has been stripped bare. It's a gut-punch, but one you should have expected. 

The bed is still made-up — because Bro sleeps in it now — but the furniture is gone, the walls stripped clean. You make a beeline for your old walk-in closet and yank on the string dangling from the centre of the ceiling. You let out an audible groan when you find all your old clothes, toys, storage boxes gone. 

The clothes you understand. You left them behind, and you're not thirteen anymore. But there were other things — sentimental things from your childhood you weren't quite ready to let go of. Things you don't need in your day-to-day, but stuff you might have wanted to revisit some day. Things Bro probably thought nothing of, considered junk or assumed you'd outgrown, which are gone now because he'd never thought to ask what you wanted. 

He never asks you what you want. You've always wanted what he wants and you know he likes it that way because he considers you a part of him, an extension of himself. It's only recently it's started to bother you because you know it isn't true. 

You pull on the end of the cord again, pitching the closet back into darkness. You sit then at the edge of his mattress and sip on your drink, faster now, hoping that if you drink a little more it'll quiet the murmuring doubt lingering at the edges of your conciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that abrupt ending but I had to break somewhere. The last chapter was fitting to be 5000+ words, way too long, and honestly I'm getting sick of looking at it D: 
> 
> <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who was worried about the 'Attempted Sexual Assault' tag, there is nothing graphic here and it's mostly off-screen. 
> 
> Also not sure if I needed to clarify this but what happens is NOT between Dave/Bro. 
> 
> Updated tags, so please check them out.

You're not sure how long you've been sitting on your own when the door creaks open and Bro comes in, pulling it closed behind him. 

"What'chu doin' in here?" 

_Waiting for you to find me._

He sits down next to you, weight dipping the mattress down so that you kind of roll into it, towards him. 

"I dunno," you answer with a shrug. "Wondering why you got rid'a all my Hot Wheels."

This actually elicits a soft snort of laughter from him. "You're fifteen, Dave. You ain't played with cars since you was ten."

Shit. Were you really that old? If John knew he'd hang it over your head for the rest of eternity. After he finally stopped laughing at you.

"So? There was some good shit in there. Like the 40's Woodie and the Sharkruiser. What the hell, man? The _Sharkruiser_."

He leans back on his palms, looking at you. "So when we get t'where we're goin' I'll get ya some new ones." 

"You will?"

"Mm." 

He's totally lying. There's no way he's going to buy his fifteen year-old kid brother replacement toy cars, but you appreciate the fact that he's at least willing to bullshit to you. 

"Come out a while." He shoulder-checks you, albeit gently. 

"You seem kinda busy." You don't want to sound whiny, or needy, or like you can't handle this, but you know what it sounds like and so you add, "You didn't introduce me to no one." 

"Why would I? You ain't ever gonna see any of 'em again. C'mon. Give it a couple hours an most'a these assholes'll split."

You can't help but perk up at that. 

"So it's just me and you tonight?" You think back to that guy being all over your Bro. You don't want him in your apartment, or in Kansas for that matter. 

He rests a palm flat on your head, messes with your hair. "Now on, that's it, kid. You and me."

It's what you wanted to hear. This time, like most others, you choose to believe it. 

He gets to his feet and you follow. When he doesn't immediately leave you decide to go for it, give a little trust back because you're going to need a fuckton more of it if you're about to leave the state with him. 

You lurch forward before you lose your nerve, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing the side of your face into his chest. It's awkward; still not the same. The last time he touched you, you practically pissed yourself. Every time you think back to it you're steeped in shame all over again. 

It takes a while for him to warm up to it. Eventually he relaxes, brings a hand to the back of your head, warm fingers brushing the shell of your ear. He inhales deeply, then exhales again. If you really concentrate, you can hear the sound of his heart thudding in his chest. 

"This is it, little bro." His voice rumbles deeply in his chest. You close your eyes and his smell, like Sauvage and stale tobacco, engulfs and comforts you. 

You think you know what he means. The end of all this, the past few years which have been a nightmare for him and a rollercoaster for you. If you could go back and do it all over, tell your younger self to just keep your mouth shut about him, you're not sure you would. 

You'll never tell him that. 

Deep down he must know. He wasn't being good to you. He's changed in ways he probably wouldn't had all that shit not gone down. And you've been separated from him long enough that you're not so dependent on him, which you're sure was always at the root of his frustration with you. 

Him not wanting to put the brakes on his life long enough to parent you. Every need you had reminding him you were reliant on him, that he had to pull it together long enough to keep you alive each day. 

Like a noose around his neck, slowly tightening and suffocating him. 

And still he kept you; never tried to give you away. He never asked for you to get dumped on him. How much you're allowed to blame and resent him has always been unclear. Most of the time it's easier to just decide you both got the shit end of the stick and be done with it.

In the end he has to practically pry you off of him. You weren't going to do it yourself. 

"Go on," he says, spinning you around and gently shoving at the centre of your back. "Get'cher self another drink, just don't get messy. I ain't payin' t'get your puke cleaned out the carpets."

* * *

Over the next couple of hours people come and go, with such frequency you don't bother trying to remember faces, names or details. Some of them stay only a few minutes, saying goodbye to your brother you'd wager — and that's an odd thought — while others stick around for a drink, or to do whatever it is your brother does when he disappears into the bathroom and comes out a short while later looking wired. 

As for you, you stopped paying attention to how much you're drinking right around the time Bro ceased paying any kind of attention to you. The last time he'd interacted with you was to yell at you to quit fucking with his music, and him being mad at you isn't the kind of attention you want. At this point you're resigned to just getting hammered; at least enough that nothing bothers you anymore. 

It's easy enough with Bro no longer watching. You're on drink number six, (badly) playing an old GTA on Bro's Xbox, when someone sits beside you on the futon and addresses you directly.

You fuck up and crash, dropping the controller in your lap, before rounding on whoever's fucked your game up.

Your first instinct is to laugh, because this dude looks kind of like Billy Sole from Predator, minus all the camo, but you quickly shut your mouth when your slow-on-the-uptake brain decides laughing in someone's face is kind of fucked up. 

"Hey," he says, leaning forward, followed by something you assume is his name. You don't quite catch it.

"Dave," you say back, then pick up the controller and boot up a new game. You wait for the dude to tell you what he wants, but apparently it's just to make small talk — with you of all people. He's telling you something about a car radiator, and the prices of spare parts around Houston, when you nod at the TV and ask him if he wants in. 

He's way better than you, pretty much straight away. You suspect that probably has much to do with your level of inebriation, and the fact that it's temporarily robbed you of your ability to sufficiently operate a controller. 

With the passage of time getting a little janky, you're not sure how long you've been playing with this guy, all while he talks to you about things you're barely absorbing, when you notice your side is warm, and that this dude is practically spilling over into your lap right now; his thigh pressed to yours, his upper arm against your shoulder. 

Any other time and you'd be up and away from him like your ass is on fire. Right now it doesn't seem worth the effort to either haul yourself up and stagger off somewhere else, or make it into some big thing, and so you ignore it. 

At some point he must switch the game over because a short while later you find yourself mesmerized by a bunch of little zombies and yellow, smiling flowers bouncing around the screen. Bright colors swim in front of you, making you dizzy. It's becoming harder and harder to keep your vision focused, to do anything with the controller other than cradle it pathetically in your lap. 

An elbow to your side forces you to tear your eyes away from the screen. You look at the guy sitting next to you and blink slowly. "Huh?"

"You here with someone?"

"Yeah. My brother." Even to you, your own words sound labored, slurred. 

He looks around the room, as if he's trying to pick him out. Like that's even hard. Generally, anyone who looks at the two of you can tell you're related. Not everyone assumes brothers. At least fifty percent of the time they assume Bro is a single dad who just had you super young. When you were a little kid he'd play that angle up a lot just for the sympathy votes and it always seemed to work for him. At winning people over or at least getting some free shit. 

You tell him your brother's name and wonder if the surprise on his face is genuine. 

"Really? No way. Actual brothers?"

"Mm. With the blood'n everything. Why're you surprised?"

He puts his controller down, angles his body so that he's facing you, bestowing all of his attention upon you. "You just look different, that's all. Like really different."

Well yeah. That's because Bro has ninteen years, over a foot, and who knows how many pounds on you. Still, you see traces of him in yourself when you look in the mirror each day. In the angles of your face; your eyes. Little things like the shape of your toes and your long fingers. It's unmistakable.

Dully, you wonder why he never mentioned this guy, which leads you to ask how _he_ knows your brother. 

"We work together at the club a lot."

"Huh." You wonder what he does — door or bar. He doesn't strike you as a DJ. 

"Yeah, y'know, I've never seen you there. You should come down one night, have a drink, check it all out. Your bro's real good, y'know. Place is packed out every Friday night."

You let out a soft huff of laughter, because this guy is definitely blowing smoke up your ass. He has to know you're underage but he's doing that thing where he pretends not to notice, like he's patting you on your head and telling you you're a big boy. 

"Yeah, whatever. Maybe some time."

Head lolling, you watch as he rolls a cigarette. It's kind of hypnotizing, watching his hands work, the rolling of the paper. When he asks if you smoke you tell him yes, even though you don't. When he suggests the two of you get out of here, head up to the roof, it's a godsend because you can't think of anything you want more than the fresh air on your face. 

Besides, you're sure you and Bro left the mini-golf set up there. It'd for sure beat sitting on your ass, feeling sick and dizzy and sorry for yourself. 

You follow his lead, and he grips your forearm to hold you steady while you ascend the stairs. 

* * *

Brief moments, like vivid single frames on a reel of film, stick with you. 

Seeing double. Feeling like you're spinning around in circles even though your feet are stuck to the ground. 

Being asked if anyone's ever told you you're cute.

_"No."_

Getting backed up against the cold brick wall by the door; feeling the scratch of it through your thin cotton t-shirt. 

Someone trying to stuff their hand down the back of your jeans.

Pushing back against a solid chest, refusing a kiss because you feel sick and want to go home. 

Trying to laugh it off, but he keeps on trying to convince you.

_"No one's gonna know. It's just you and me up here. You want it, don't you?"_

Wondering where Bro is. Knowing if you yell for him, he won't be able to hear you. 

* * *

When you first wake, it's still dark out. You lay there for a few moments in a state of panic, no idea where you are. 

As your eyes adjust to the dark, it starts coming back to you, bit by bit. You're at the apartment, not in your bed back at Dave and Kathy's. When you move your feet to roll over, they bump up against someone else's and that causes a fresh wave of fear to flood through you. 

You settle down once you realize it's just Bro, sprawled out atop the sheets next to you. You can see his profile in the dark, the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes in and out. 

You're safe.

You budge up closer to him, yanking the comforter up to your chin and closing your eyes. Your mouth is dry like cotton-wool. Your head is pounding and your bladder is full to bursting but there's no way you're leaving the safety of this bed. 

You're not yet ready to face the day, or last night. You don't even know if the apartment is completely empty.

It's not safe to leave the bed; to leave Bro.

You press your cheek to Bro's shoulder and settle back down into a fitful sleep. 

* * *

The next time you crack open your eyes, sunlight is streaming through the half-open window across from your bed, directly onto your face. You sit up on your elbows, squinting, and stretch around to look behind you. 

Bro's side of the bed is empty, which means he must be awake early.

You're not in any hurry to look him in the eye, though, and so, making as little noise as possible, you head for the bathroom to pee, clean your teeth, wash your face, doing everything as slowly as you can. You're wishing now you'd brought a whole new change of clothes because you want these ones off of you sooner rather than later.

When you finally emerge from the bathroom, Bro is banging around in the kitchen with a little more gusto than normal. Cabinets open and slam shut, hard enough to rattle the glass, and he's cursing under his breath, words like "goddamn", "shit" and "motherfucker". 

It's not new territory for you — you know what he's like when he's tired and feeling rough — but you haven't missed this side of him. You're still jumpy around him when he gets like this.

You think he's looking for a glass. You're about to tell him there's a stack of plastic tumblers near the futon when he mutters, "Fuck it," and snatches a bottle of Tylenol up off the bench, unscrewing the cap. He shakes a couple out into his palm and washes them down with what looks like a cup of last night's beer.

You sit down on the futon and absently watch Houston's Morning Show. After he's done banging around in the kitchen, Bro sits down next to you and starts rolling a cigarette; doesn't say a word. He's practically radiating pissed-off energy and it's barreling towards you in waves. 

It's probably best if you leave. There's no way he wants you underfoot today, not when he's feeling this sore. And you're not feeling too hot yourself; there's no way you want to be in his line of fire right now. 

The first words out of his mouth are: "Nothin' happened."

You have to look at him to make sure he's talking to you. There's nobody else around. 

"What?" You press your hand down on your knee, hard, to keep from jiggling it.

"I said nothin' happened. I stopped it."

Last night. If you strain your memory you can pull forth a few fragments, none of them pleasant. Your skin starts to feel hot as you come to the realization that Bro definitely knows about it, and might have even seen you in some humiliating position. 

You intended to chalk all that up to a mistake, never think about it again, just be grateful large chunks of the night are missing from your memory. 

You can't do that, though, because _he knows_. 

"I didn't... I mean, I thought it was..." You don't know how much he knows. Probably more than you do, and that thought fills you with cold dread. "I was messed up, man. I don't even know what happened. I'm sorry."

The "tch" you get in response is enough to let you know your answer isn't satisfactory. You don't know what else to say other than you're sorry. 

You're halfway through the cooking segment before he talks to you again. 

"Answer me one thing, 'cause I need'a know. Were you askin' for it?"

It feels like forever before you can answer him, so horrified are you that he's even saying any of this. That he even needs to ask when he should already know the answer. 

Finally, you manage a shaky but decisive, "No."

"Yeah, well, you wouldn't'a been makin' eyes at him if you didn't want it, now, would ya?"

You bite your lip to help hold back the furious desire to back-talk at him because this part, you know for sure, is complete bullshit. You weren't looking at anyone like anything. 

Carefully choosing your words, you quietly say, "I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that 'cause I know you don't mean it."

He huffs at you and slams his beer down, glaring right at you now. You close your eyes so you don't have to see the disgust in his face and try to breathe calmly, exhaling through your nose. 

"What the hell were you thinkin', Dave? With _him_?" He punctuates that last word with genuine contempt. 

You don't even know who "him" is. Just some weird, opportunistic creep who liked the look of you; thought he could take a shot at you right under your brother's nose. He's probably regretting that action right about now. Wherever he is, you're almost certain Bro lit his face up like a fucking Christmas tree.

What you want to say to Bro is, _I thought you were watching. I thought I was safe with you. At least from everyone else._

A darker, quieter part of you, one that usually tells you the truth, whispers that this is all Bro's fault anyway. He's supposed to be the grown-up. He should have known better than to let you drink like that. He should have been paying attention to you, keeping an eye on you. He should care about you, love you, more than anything else, not just as an afterthought. You can't trust him and you know it.

He tells you he loves you but he doesn't mean it. At least not in the way normal, well-adjusted people do. His love for you is fragile if it makes him want to say things like this every time he gets mad at you. 

"I wasn't thinking anything," you tell him. "I wasn't thinking. I didn't want anything."

Another huff. "Could'a fooled me."

You can't help yourself, so snap back, "What's that s'posed to mean?"

"He was halfway through gettin' into your pants," he growls with open revulsion. "That what you wanted?"

"I already told you, _no_." 

There's no point arguing further so you sit there and let him berate you, get it out of his system. 

You interrupt his tirade:

"You're so fuckin' stupid, Dave. Didn't I tell ya not to get messy? You wanna think about what would'a happened if I'd just left ya with him? You wanna know how that shit ends? Ain't pretty, I'll tell ya that." 

with a quiet, tired, "Stop it, alright, I love you."

He doesn't hear you, or chooses not to. 

"I know damn sure I ain't never raised you to be so fuckin' gullible, kid. You want people to think you're fucked in the head — that you want shit like that? You want anyone to think you're that fuckin' easy?"

Once he's done chewing you up and spitting you out, you feel sore all over. You've already decided to get your stuff and leave at the first available opportunity but your fear that he might get physical if he thinks you're running away from him keeps you rooted to the spot, at least for a while. 

You wait until his phone rings and he gets up, leaves the room to answer it, before you seize on your moment. 

* * *

You don't hear from him until nine o'clock that evening. 

You're laying in your bed in the dark, where you've been most of the day — hiding out under the blankets, ignoring Big Dave when he comes in to ask if you're alright — when your phone lights up and shows his number. 

You decided not to answer it before he even called. You already know what he's going to say. 

_"Y'know I didn't mean it like that."_

_"You're too sensitive, kid."_

_"I'm just lookin' out for you."_

Or, the big guns; the one that always wears you down: 

_"I love you, Dave."_

You don't want to hear it. You can't keep letting him paste over the cracks in your relationship with platitudes he doesn't even understand.

You reject his call and tuck the phone under your pillow, closing your sore eyes even though the idea of sleep is impossible. 

* * *

Monday is The Day. 

You fake a stomach flu and skip school, unable to face anything outside your bedroom door. If you're going to make it through to the end of the night you need to be here, safe, where even _you_ can't betray yourself by running back to him. Safe, with Big Dave outside mowing the front lawn, watching over you and the house in case any shit goes down. 

You don't know what makes you think it will. The logical part of you says that, surely, he can't still think you're going with him. 

You're not. You can't. 

But you know Bro better than anything. He's probably telling himself this'll all blow over if you just stop being so sensitive. After all, you've forgiven him for worse. This is just another hitch in the road. 

He won't let you go without a fight. 

He calls you, so many times you lose count. When you're not answering any of them, he finally gets the message and switches things up. 

TT: If you're coming, be at the apartment no later than 5.  
TT: I'm not playing with you, Dave. You don't show and I'm outta here without you.   
TT: I'm not waiting around for you to finish throwing some fucking high school tantrum, alright? Sack up and get your shit together. 

When his threats garner no response, he changes tactic in a way you find disappointingly predictable.

TT: What are you holding out for?   
TT: I'm sorry?  
TT: I'm sorry. I didn't mean it the way you took it.  
TT: You know how I feel about you. Shit made me sick. 

You're tempted to take him at face value. He so rarely apologizes to you, much less tells you you're special to him. For him, you know it's almost physically painful. 

But he doesn't mean it. He's not sorry. If you go with him it's just a matter of time before shit gets bad again — as bad as it was the first time round. 

You can't do it. You won't, as much as it's killing you to know you'll never get to say goodbye to him.

By the time it hits four-thirty you're pacing your room, chewing on your fingernails as you alternate between looking at your phone, and looking up at the clock. 

You wait for a flurry of incoming calls, messages, that never arrives. Five o'clock, then six o'clock passes without so much as a whimper. 

You're not sure what you were expecting: A string of messages, voicemails, telling you what an ungrateful little fuck-up you are. Or a litany of sentences designed to break you, beg you, guilt you; make you second-guess ever making the decision to be away from him.

Nothing. 

You're awake and wired at ten-thirty, eyes still glued to your phone. You keep checking Google Maps every hour or so, trying to calculate in your head where he's at right now. Wondering what he thinks about you. If he hates you; is done with you. If he's ready to wipe you now and you'll never see him again. 

It's been five and a half hours now. He must be out of Dallas, past the border and into Oklahoma. Far enough away that it feels like you're on separate continents. 

* * *

After midnight your phone pings loud, waking you from a restless sleep. You pick it up and mash the power button, rubbing at your blurry eyes. 

You can read the whole message right there, without even having to unlock the phone. 

It takes your brain a second to understand what you're seeing, to parse the unfamilar numbers and words into some recognizable structure. 

And then at once, you understand what you're seeing: An address. An address in Kansas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far, thanks for reading. I might edit the whole thing at some point as I'm not 100% happy with earlier chapters but I'm pretty pleased with how this one turned out. <3


End file.
